


My Mind Is On You

by cyranothe2nd



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyranothe2nd/pseuds/cyranothe2nd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things started going to shit as soon as they entered Bruce Wayne’s mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Mind Is On You

**Author's Note:**

> Inception/The Dark Knight crossover. Written for the Knight versus Anarchy challenge, Round 21, prompt "roads not taken." Betaed by 1Badjoke and RubberChicken.

   Things started going to shit as soon as they entered Bruce Wayne’s mind.

  
   Eames had approached him for the job four weeks ago. He’d found Arthur in a café in Seattle and plopped down into the chair opposite him with a shit-eating grin on his face and said, in his annoying, drawling way, “Darling, I have a proposition for you.”

  
   “I’m on vacation,” Arthur had pointed out, crossing one leg over the other and looking bored.

  
   Eames reached out and plucked the latte from Arthur’s grasp. “Come on, aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  
   “Not really,” he said, dusting invisible lint off of his immaculately cut trousers. He was only stalling. He hadn’t worked in six months—since the Fischer job—and he was interested; he just enjoyed annoying the shit out of Eames.

  
   “Look, if you’re going to be a tosser about it—“

  
   “Fine, fine. Tell me about the job.”

  
   The job, as it turned out, was routine corporate espionage: breaking in to the unmilitarized subconscious of a playboy billionaire who liked to pretend to be a working man in the company his father built.

  
   “One level, in and out,” Eames said. “It will be a cakewalk.”

  
   “There’s no such thing,” Arthur groused and relented.

  
   They were on the next flight to Gotham.

 

***

 

   “Real shithole,” Stella observed, taking in the warehouse Eames had rented near the harbor.

  
   Arthur had insisted on bringing in Stella, an architect from Phoenix he’d worked with between jobs with Cobb, to build the levels. And he’d done some homework of his own on the mark--parents dead, no family, no political ties, no ambition besides spending his inheritance. But a year ago, Bruce Wayne had decided to back the late Harvey Dent in his bid for District Attorney.

  
   “That’s our way in,” Arthur said. “This is something he actually cares about.”

  
   Stella snorted. “I’m pretty sure Bruce Wayne doesn’t care about _anything._ ”

  
   Stella had made her disdain for their target clear from the outset. She was a smart capable woman who had little tolerance for ‘rich pricks and their toadies,’ as she put it. Arthur admired her skill as an architect but he kept her well away from the clients.

  
   “Everyone cares about something,” Eames said quietly from the chair he was slouched in.

  
   Arthur flicked a glance at him and then looked away quickly, but he could feel Eames’ gaze on him for the rest of the afternoon.

 

***

 

   The grab was planned for the next night. They would take Wayne from a nightclub he frequented on weekends, get him in a van they’d rented and have Stella drive them around for the ten minutes it would take for them to do the job. She’d administer the kick and then they’d just drop Wayne back at the club. Arthur had cased out the place through the weekend—a posh night spot called _Silver_ —and was pleased to find an exit to the alley near the men’s room. Stella parked the van and he and Eames met at the bar, Eames dressed in a tight black tee shirt and truly awful leather pants. The plan was to buy Wayne a drink, spike it and pretend to help him to the bathroom.

  
   In retrospect, this is actually where things started going to shit.

  
   Eames was good, Arthur would give him that. He certainly looked natural here; his clothes and his handsome face—clean-shaven, for once—and the money he flashed around marked him as one of the important people. He’d insinuated himself into the circle of sycophants that surrounded Wayne without a problem, carefully steering the conversation in the direction he wanted. It wasn’t necessary to plant the Harvey Dent idea in Wayne’s mind before he went under, but it would make things easier. The subconscious would remember it and bring that sense of familiarity into the dream, which made things safer for Arthur and Eames inside. It wasn’t nearly enough to protect them from the mark’s projections, but it might buy them an extra few minutes.

  
   Arthur watched Eames leaning forward earnestly to clap the mark on the arm, than waving the waitress over to order drinks.

  
   “To Harvey Dent,” Arthur heard Eames say in a tight American accent. Eames raised his glass and Arthur watched the mark do the same.

  
   A few minutes later, Eames was hauling Bruce Wayne through the crowd towards the bathroom. Arthur followed slowly, standing guard in front of the bathroom door for five long minutes, enough time for the mark to pass out before he entered, locking the door behind him.

  
   Eames had Wayne sitting with his back against the tiled wall. “You’ve just had too much to drink,” he was saying soothingly. His body language was unthreatening but the fingers of his left hand drummed a tense rhythm against his thigh. “Rest for a minute, all right?”

  
   Eames stood and went to the sink, ostensibly to wash his hands. Arthur joined him, cutting Eames a look in the wide mirror. The mark wasn’t supposed to see him. It was one of Arthur’s fail-safes, in case Eames ran into trouble in the dream. Five minutes should have been more than enough time to knock the jackass out. Why wasn’t Wayne unconscious?

  
   In the mirror, Arthur could see Wayne’s eyes moved from Eames to Arthur. For just a moment, Arthur thought he saw a flash of cold anger cross the playboy’s face before the drug took effect and Wayne’s head drooped to his chest.

 

***

 

   “Mr. Wayne?”

  
   The mark snapped awake in the dream. He looked around dazedly and then smiled at the brunette in front of him. “Sorry, I must have dozed off for a minute.”

  
   “It’s okay,” Eames said, reaching out and patting Wayne’s arm. The gesture was half-reassurance and half-flirtation. He was wearing the body of a 24-year old; pretty with an unturned nose, pale skin and just a hint of freckles. She was dressed demurely in a long black dress but her hair was loose around her shoulders. The whole effect was sexy, without being obvious about it. If Arthur was to be believed, she was more Bruce Wayne’s taste than the tall blonde models he usually dates. Something about a dead childhood friend; Eames wasn’t really concerned about the details.

  
   “We were just talking about the Dent Memorial Foundation,” he continued. “Mr. Nelson sent me to discuss the details with you.” He used the alias he’d given Wayne in the club a few minutes before.

  
   “Yes, right.” Wayne ran a hand through his dark hair and smiled ingratiatingly. Eames fought not to roll his eyes. This entire job was a waste of time. It was clear that Bruce Wayne lacked the brains to embezzle funds from his company and he didn’t need to see Wayne’s secrets to tell Giles Schroeder, the head of accounting and the bloke funding this little excursion, so. Still, it allowed him to work with Arthur again and Eames was definitely not going to complain about that.

  
   “I’m sure I can make a considerable donation,” Wayne said, lifting his wineglass to his lips. “Would $20,000 be sufficient?”

  
   “That’s very generous, Mr. Wayne.” Eames leaned forward, letting his fingers linger on the mark’s arm. “Perhaps we can go someone a bit quieter? I believe your office is just upstairs…” He trailed off, keeping his voice light and casting a shy smile at the other man.

  
   Wayne smiled again and took Eames’ hand. “Come on,” he said and drew Eames up from his chair.

  
   It took Eames a moment to realize that something was very wrong.

  
   This was the way dream-share worked: The dreamers—he, Arthur and the mark—shared Arthur’s dream. The mark’s subconscious was supposed to populate the dream with people the mark had seen over the course of months or even years. They were automatically filled them in, the way a person’s brain filled in their blind spot. In an unmilitarized mark, their purpose was mostly benign, although they would attack if the mark felt threatened. Right now, they should be window-dressing.

  
   Instead, the restaurant was filled with exactly three people, other than the mark and himself; a slim brunette woman in a business suit, an elderly black-clad gentleman and a genial black man. Dozens of copies of the same three people sat at the restaurant’s tables, chatting and eating. The people in the bar up on the balcony, the hostess, even the goddamn wait staff were all replicas.

  
   The effect was eerie as fuck.

  
   As though Eames’ realization had catalyzed them, all the projections suddenly stopped and turned towards him. The restaurant fell silent as dozens of pairs of the same eyes fixed on him.

  
   _Shit,_ Eames thought. _Where is Arthur? I thought we’d have more time._ He must have fucked up, must have failed to gain the mark’s trust somehow. Eames pulled away from Wayne’s guiding hand and braced himself for an attack.

  
   “Don’t mind them,” Wayne said into the silence, taking his hand again. And, as if a spell had been broken, the projections went back to what they’d been doing before. The noise of a busy restaurant resumed, the projections turning away as if the moment had never happened. Eames flicked a glance at the mark, wondering if he’d noticed, but Wayne’s face was set in its usual placid lines.

  
   Eames let Wayne lead him through the restaurant to the lobby and into an elevator, trying to calm his jangling nerves. He knew this level like the back of his hand, had studied it with Stella and had practiced it multiple times inside Arthur’s mind. He knew that the labyrinthine corridors and multiple blind walls all led inevitably to the same place: the office with the safe. They would go upstairs and Wayne would see the safe on the office wall. Eames would joke about secrets and Wayne’s mind would do the rest, automatically filling the safe with Wayne’s secrets, including any possible collusion in the embezzlement of funds from his company. Arthur would steal whatever was in the safe while Eames kept the mark occupied and they’d tell Schroeder that Wayne wasn’t the culprit. Simple.

  
   Still Eames couldn’t shake his unease. He’d been in the minds of some fucked-up individuals. But he’d never seen one with only three projections. It was just _weird_.

  
   They ascended to the thirteenth floor. Most of the hallways were deserted but sometimes a projection would pass wearing one of the same three faces and Eames had to keep from grabbing for a gun he didn’t have. He wondered if Arthur was as freaked out by this as he was. Not likely; Arthur didn’t seem to be phased by anything.

  
   At last, Wayne ushered him into a tasteful lounge, leaving the outer door open. Wayne’s own office was just across the hall but Wayne seemed in no hurry to get there, instead sinking onto a black leather couch and gesturing for Eames to do the same.

  
   “Now Mary—can I call you Mary?—why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?”

  
   Eames could have ground his teeth in frustration. Ten minutes in the real world gave them two hours in the dream. They’d already wasted forty-five minutes downstairs. He’d promised Arthur a half-hour to read whatever was in the safe, plus another half-hour cushion in case the projections got riled up. Which meant that he was cutting it close as it was. He really didn’t want to waste any time here.

  
   “Oh Mr. Wayne, I’m not a very interesting person,” he said. He needed to tie this back to Harvey Dent, get the mark back on track. “My father was a cop,” he improvised. “He spent his life trying to get mobsters and drug dealers off the streets. He was shot three years ago, in the line of duty.” Eames paused here, letting his voice go soft and his eyes a bit dewy. “I miss him every day.” He ducked his head, making his forge’s long hair fall into his face. It’d been a while since he’d done this particular body and he’d forgotten how much he loved the hair.

  
   “I’m sorry,” the mark said quietly. He’d lost his parents at a young age, Eames knew. They shared a moment of commiserating silence.

  
   “That’s why the Foundation is so important to me. Harvey Dent wasn’t just a man; he was a symbol. Cops like my dad looked up to him.”

  
   “Yes,” Wayne said seriously. “Harvey was a good man.”

  
   For just a moment, his eyes looked bleak and despairing. Then he seemed to snap back to himself and gave Eames his trademark vacuous smile.

  
   “Still, that doesn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Mary?”

  
   Eames felt something shiver at the base of his spine but he kept his voice light and teasing. “Well, I can’t say that meeting the handsome Bruce Wayne didn’t have something to do with it..”

  
   A sudden draft ran through the room and the lights seemed to dim.

  
   Wayne’s smile slid from his face. He stood. The casual insouciance of his normal stance was gone, replaced by taut stillness. His mouth set in a grim line and his eyes were sharp on Eames’. The change was so sudden and comprehensive that Eames drew back into the cushions of the sofa in surprise. Wayne leaned over him, his voice cool and even as he said, “I don’t like liars, Mary. So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

  
   Eames’ mind whirled. How much did Wayne know? Had someone tipped him off? Where was Arthur?

  
   “How’d you know?” He asked, trying to buy time. The room went colder.

  
   Wayne bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Because when I dream, it’s not about restaurants or offices.”

  
   Eames didn’t have a gun. There was no place to put it, dressed like this. He did, however, carry a knife. Killing himself in front of the mark meant the job was well and truly fucked. Then again, the job seemed to be fucked anyway.

  
   Eames dropped the forge, sliding back into his own body and launching a punch into Wayne’s solar plexus. The blow and the surprise of his sudden transformation should buy him a few seconds and Eames would get to the knife and get himself the hell out of here. At least that was the plan. He did not expect Wayne to merely grunt and then clock him in the face.

  
   It had been a while since Eames had taken a solid blow to the jaw—the last time it had been Arthur and Eames had promised himself never to call him ‘Babycakes’ again, no matter how delectable he looked—and it fucking _hurt_.

  
   Wayne’s hands clawed at Eames’ jacket, finding the knife and tossing it into the corner. Eames twisted in his grip. Stars erupted in his vision as Wayne hit him again.  
   “Fuck,” Eames muttered, not bothering to hide his accent now. He shook the pain off and straightened, quickly taking stock.

  
   The dream was changing. The lounge, warm and inviting only a few minutes before, was now darkened and bitterly cold. The carpet under Eames’ feet had become rough concrete and the white office walls shone with damp. As Eames watched, the last of the lights flickered and went out, leaving Wayne’s face in shadow.

  
   None of this should be possible. They were in Arthur’s dream, Arthur’s head. Wayne should not be able to change the dream at will. A trained architect might be able to change the dreamscape of a dream that wasn’t her own. Ariadne could possibly do it. Maybe Stella, half a dozen other architects Eames had worked with over the years. But not some untrained playboy. It wasn’t possible.

  
   Wayne shook him by the collar, bringing his focus back to the dangerous situation at hand. “What are you here for?” He thundered, his voice low and gravelly.

  
   There was no way that Eames was going to tell him _that_. He would never reveal the name of a client, even in a job as trifling as this one. The dreamshare community was small and word of betrayal got around. Besides, Arthur would kill him and _where the fuck was Arthur anyway?_

  
   Eames looked defiantly up at Wayne. He looked much larger than he had a moment before. In fact, Wayne seemed to grow as Eames watched, his face distorting into a terrifying mask, massive dark wings unfurling from heavily muscled shoulders, grey pinstriped suit melting to reveal skin as black as oil. His eyes were two bottomless holes in his monstrous face and Eames knew—he _knew_ —this was just a dream, but his heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream. The specter that had once been Bruce Wayne reached for him with a monstrous clawed hand. Eames twisted under its arm and ran.

 

***

 

   Arthur glanced at his watch and then down to the restaurant level. He could see Eames’ curvy brunette touching the mark’s arm with her fingertips and saying something that Wayne had to lean close to hear. They had been in the dream for a little over half an hour and aside from the fact that all the projections were the same three people—seriously, what the fuck was wrong with Bruce Wayne?—things looked to be going well.

  
   Still, Arthur could not shake the feeling that something was off.

  
   He scanned the bar and then the restaurant again, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Well, more out of the ordinary than a self-obsessed mark who had a very limited mental vocabulary. There was nothing.

  
   Arthur ordered another drink and nursed it, watching the pair below. After about fifteen more minutes Wayne got up, taking Eames’ hand. Eames looked around and Arthur could see him doing a double-take as he noticed the remarkable dearth of variety in the mark’s projections. There was a tense moment when everything went utterly silent, all the projections turning as one to stare at Eames. Arthur reached for his gun, prepared to shoot Eames and then himself, but Wayne said something and everything snapped back to normal.

   Arthur catalogued this as another weird thing in this weird dream and ducked out of the bar and towards the back stairs.

  
   He didn’t even see the clowns until they were right on top of him.

 

***

 

   Arthur wasn’t an easy man to get the drop on. He was a point man, which meant that, aside from doing intel, it was his job to protect his partners and the mark inside the dream. He was good at his job; his professionalism and attention to detail were well known in the dreamshare community and he took pride in the fact that many extractors asked to work with him personally.

  
   So, it was a huge blow to his pride to be waylaid and disarmed by four guys in clown masks. Fucking clowns. He’d been terrified of them ever since childhood and he’d almost suspected that Eames was behind this, except that the clowns proceeded to handcuff, blindfold and then kick the shit out of him, before throwing him in the back of a van.  
   Arthur laid face down on the floor, blood trickling across his forehead, memorizing the van’s route until it pulled to a stop. He estimated it took ten minutes to get to their destination, which meant it was roughly an hour until the kick. He needed to get out of here fast and back to Wayne’s office, so he could get what was in the safe. Which wasn’t going to happen as long as he was handcuffed.

  
   Arthur felt hands grab him and lever him upright, frog-marching him up a set of stairs and inside. They walked across what felt like a tiled floor, then around a corner and into another room. He was sat down roughly and the blindfold was yanked off.

  
   Arthur looked around. He was seated on a metal chair in front of a large metal desk. The too-bright lights reflected off the white tile walls. Two-way mirrors lined each side of the room and the door looked heavy and impenetrable. _Interrogation room,_ Arthur’s mind supplied. But that didn’t make sense. Projections killed to protect the mark’s subconscious. They didn’t ask questions.

  
   “Hey,” he called to the retreating figures of his captors. “Hey, don’t leave me here! What is this?” The metal door slammed shut and Arthur heard the lock clang closed.  
   “Little _bright_ in here, isn’t it?” A high, nasal voice asked from behind him. Arthur started and whipped around, knocking his chair over with a clatter.

  
   A tall, thin man stood hunched near the rear wall. He was dressed in purple trousers and a garish green shirt. A darker green tie and vest completed the ensemble. But it was the face that shot a bolt of fear to Arthur’s gut; covered in white grease-paint, with a wide gaping red grin drawn over a Glasgow smile. His dark-rimmed eyes were utterly devoid of human compassion but his mouth quirked up in amusement when he saw recognition on Arthur’s face.

  
   It was Arthur’s job to know things. Gotham was famous for its hero and its villains—The Joker foremost among them.

  
   “What do you want with me?” Arthur’s voice was calm. He wasn’t about to let a projection, even a projection of a homicidal maniac, ruffle him.

  
   “Depends,” The Joker said.

  
   “On what?” Arthur gritted out.

  
   “Ooooo,” The other man said and sidled closer. Arthur took a step back, minding the overturned chair. “You’ve got a bit of the Bat in you, don’t ya _sweet_ heart?”

   His voice was strange; shivering up and down in a sing-song, drawing out all the wrong syllables. It was like he had learned language from a book. Or maybe he was deliberately trying to be off-putting. Arthur narrowed his eyes at him and sneered.

  
   He moved, faster than Arthur would have given him credit for. Arthur retreated a few steps before lashing out at the oncoming figure with his foot. He felt the kick connect and then The Joker’s body slammed into his own and they were both knocked to the floor. Arthur’s head hit the tile hard and blood filled his mouth. He felt a hand close around his throat, not squeezing but tight enough that he knew it was there.

  
   “You could be a reeeeealy in-ter-esting playmate but…we don’t really have the time.” The Joker’s sigh ruffled the hair around Arthur’s ear, “The things I do for love. ”

  
   He sat up, straddling Arthur’s legs and fished with his free hand in his pocket. With a flourish he pulled out a knife, a six-inch folder which he thumbed open with the ease of long practice.

  
   He grinned down at Arthur’s unmoving expression, but when he spoke next, his voice was different—hard and demanding and absolutely the most terrifying thing Arthur had ever heard.

  
   “What are you doing here?”

  
   _Pain is in the mind,_ Arthur reminded himself as the knife moved closer to his face.

  
   Turned out, his brain didn’t know that.

 

***

 

   Eames ran down corridors that melted into rain-soaked streets under his feet. Carpet gave way to pavement and plaster walls became concrete and brick. Trash was strewn in dark corners and the smell of decay filled Eames’ heaving lungs. He could hear the creature behind him, its cries ringing in the night as he ran.

  
   He needed to find a way to kill himself. If he does that, he will simply wake up in the van. He didn’t like not knowing where Arthur was but he knew Arthur had enough sense to kill himself if the dream went south and it was too big a dreamscape to go looking for him alone.

  
   Eames glanced at the buildings to get his bearings. Up ahead there would be a fire escape. He could climb it to the top and jump. It wasn’t the cleanest death he’d ever had in a dream but it was definitely not the messiest, either.

  
   Eames rounded the corner and clambered up the fire escape, the rusted railing flaking away under his hand as he took the stairs two at a time. He could no longer hear the creature and he spared a second to glance above him. No sign of it, thank Christ. Eames had no idea what that thing was but he was sure that he did not want to meet it in a dark alley, ever.

  
   A minute more and he was standing on the edge of the rooftop, judging the distance to the bottom. He wished he’d picked a higher building but options were thin on the ground and he wanted to get this over with. He climbed onto the ledge.

  
   This was always the hard part. He’d shot himself in dreams so many times he’d lost count; stabbed himself to death twice; hung himself once. But leaping to his death never got any easier. Probably because he had way too much time to stand here and think about it.

  
   _Get a grip, asshole,_ Eames could hear Arthur’s voice in his head. _Do it._

  
   A movement out of the corner of his eye made Eames snap his head up. Above him, silhouetted against turgid grey clouds, were the outstretched wings of his pursuer.  
   “Fuck,” Eames muttered under his breath and jumped.

  
   The ground flew towards him and Eames closed his eyes, his body bracing for impact. And then his spine jarred and his breath whooshed out as a pair of arms caught him around the middle. He opened his eyes and saw the ground receding, massive wingbeats dragging him up. His pursuer had caught him.

  
   Eames twisted, kicking his legs but the creature crushed him closer. Its arms were suffocatingly tight around his torso, its claws digging into his sides as it leveled out. The creature banked around a corner and a squat brick building came into view. They spiraled down towards it and landed none too gently on the moonlit pavement.

  
   The creature hauled him towards the building, manhandling him up the stairs and inside. Eames’ eyes adjusted to reveal a wide office space in some sort of administration building. A reception area opened into rows of desks, partitioned by low cubicles and broken only by several sets of grimy windows. He was dragged across the room and around a corner, towards a heavy metal door that gleamed white against a dingy beige wall. The creature dropped him on the floor in front of it and Eames rolled to absorb the impact, sitting up with his back to the door.

  
   “What the—“

  
   The sound of a long, pained scream stopped him.

   It took a few seconds for Eames to place the voice. And then every hair on his body stood on end.

  
   He had never heard Arthur scream. Years ago, they’d been captured by insurgents in Beirut and he’d watched helplessly as they’d broken each of Arthur’s fingers. Arthur had barely made a sound. And that was in real life, not a dream.

  
   The sound Arthur was making now was tortured, erupting to echo against the tiled walls only to break off into lower noises, grunts and gasps of pain and then wrenching out to keen again. High pitched laughter joined this second scream in demented counter-point, rolling up and over Eames in a nauseating wave.

  
   “Stop it! Stop,” he said, clawing at the handle of the door, trying to get to Arthur and kill whatever it was that was making him make that sound. His hands scrambled uselessly against solid metal, calling Arthur’s name. The sounds on the other side of the door abruptly ceased. A small grate at the top slid open to reveal the painted face of a clown. His right cheek was smeared with blood.

  
   “So good of you to join us,” he said, his eyes flicking between Eames and the dark shape behind him. He stepped away, revealing a patch of the room. Eames caught sight of Arthur and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  
   “Arthur?” Eames called. A low moan answered him. Whoever this was knew enough to keep him alive. The clown stepped back into Eames’ line of sight, a giggle escaping his lips at the look on Eames’ face.

  
   “What do you want?” Eames demanded.

  
   “Tell us who you are and why you’re here,” the creature said from behind him. Its voice was so low that the words came out distorted.

  
   Eames thought of the pool of blood around Arthur’s limp body. “We were hired,” He said.

  
   “By whom?” The clown asked.

  
   “The head of accounting at Wayne Enterprises. They think Wayne or the CEO are embezzling money from the company. Wayne was unmilitarized, so he was deemed the easier target.”

  
   The clown erupted into laughter. “Stealing money? _That’s_ what this is about?” He doubled over, long, blood-drenched fingers curling around the doorflap as he giggled maniacally.

  
   A hand gripped Eames’ shoulder and forced him around. “Tell them he isn’t stealing,” the creature rumbled. “And you make sure your colleagues in dreamshare know that Bruce Wayne is not a target.”

  
   He reached beyond Eames to wrench the door open and pushed him to the floor inside. “Send them back,” he said to the clown.

  
   The clown peered down at Eames, spinning a bloody knife between his fingers. “You sure I can’t play with this one a bit?”

  
   The creature snarled.

  
   “Awww, you’re no fun,” the clown answered. He bent over Eames. “Rise and shine,” he sing-songed.

  
   There was a brief flash of pain. Then Eames woke up.

 

***

 

   Eames jerked upright to find Stella hovering over him, one hand clutched to her chest.

  
   “Shit, you scared me,” she said. The van was parked in the alley. Wayne and Arthur sat side-by-side, heads lolling. “I was just about to wake you up,” she continued, reaching for the cannula on Eames’ arm. Eames waved her away and ripped it out, moving to Arthur.

  
   Arthur’s eyes snapped open before Eames had left his seat.

  
   “Eames?” he said shakily.

  
   Eames couldn’t help it. He reached out and pulled Arthur into his arms. Arthur went willingly, clutching handfuls of Eames’ tee shirt as he hugged back.

  
   “Okay?” he whispered in Arthur’s ear.

  
   Arthur shook his head ‘no’ but straightened, fumbling for his totem. Eames averted his eyes politely. Just because Cobb was willing to tell all and sundry about his totem didn’t meant the rest of them wanted to share. He waited a few seconds and then turned back, taking in Arthur’s pale face and the trembling of his hands.

  
   “What happened?” Stella demanded.

   Eames shook his head, gesturing to the mark. “Let’s get him inside,” he said.

  
   Stella nodded, all business. They got him out of the van and back into the bathroom. Eames left Stella behind to wake him up and went back outside. Arthur was standing with his back to the brick of the alley, body tense.

  
   “Cigarette?” he asked. He knew Arthur didn’t smoke, but he looked like he could use something to do with his hands.

  
   “Yeah,” Arthur said.

  
   Eames lit one for himself, keeping his movements slow and easy. He passed the pack and lighter over. Arthur’s hands shook at he lit up and took a long drag. As he smoked he seemed to relax minutely, the brittle edginess in his limbs easing into familiar wariness.

  
   They smoked in silence.

  
   “Eames?” Arthur said finally, voice tight and careful.

   “Yeah, love?”

  
   Arthur flicked his spent cigarette away and turned towards him.

  
   “Buy me a drink,” he said.

  
   Eames did. And he didn’t stop buying until they were both drunk.

 

***

 

   **_Six weeks later_**

  
   They were in Rio. Arthur had demanded to go someplace warm after they left Gotham and Eames hadn’t cared where they went, as long as Arthur was there. They’d returned Schneider’s money and warned him, in the strongest possible terms, against trying to extract anything from Bruce Wayne’s mind again. Schneider had gotten pissy about it until Eames had explained, in excruciating detail, exactly how much he did not appreciate being sent unknowingly into a militarized mind.

  
   That was the explanation they’d given to Stella, as well as to Schneider, about why the job failed. Personally, Eames didn’t believe it. He’d never experienced anything like the shit they’d seen in Wayne’s mind. Arthur thought Wayne had been trained using new technique but Eames wasn’t so sure. Yes, Wayne had been able to manipulate the dream, but the projections they’d encountered in Wayne’s mind were nothing like his own, or Arthur’s or anyone he knew who’d been militarized. Maybe it was a new sort of militarization, like Arthur thought. Or maybe Bruce Wayne was just straight up psycho.

  
   It didn’t matter to Eames.

  
   Ultimately, it was that night that had led to this morning. And Eames was all about mornings with Arthur; sunlight streaming in and the mug of coffee Arthur always brought back when he went to get the newspaper and the warm expanse of Arthur’s skin against his own.

  
   “Hey love,” he said sleepily as he felt Arthur slide into bed next to him.

  
   “Hey,” Arthur answered and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Did you see the news?”

  
   Eames rolled over to see Arthur, sitting up in bed with the _New York Times_ open in front of him. The frontpage headline read, ‘Wayne Enterprises’ Shakeup—Members of board replaced in company reorg.’ Eames smiled nastily. Served Schneider right.

  
   “I think our next job should be in Paris,” Arthur said. It was the first time he’d mentioned working again. Eames took it as a good sign. Better was the implicit ‘we.’ Eames could definitely get used to having Arthur around, full-time.

  
   “Really, darling? The city of love?” Eames leered.

  
   Arthur threw the newspaper and then himself at Eames. They mock-tussled for a few minutes until Eames laughed, pulled Arthur down, and kissed him.

  
   “Paris sounds lovely,” he said against Arthur’s lips and meant it.


End file.
